


power play

by choir



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choir/pseuds/choir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abe likes the view from the top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	power play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aesterismo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesterismo/gifts).



> I'm so sorry, Oofuri fandom.
> 
> THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN KEI AND I TALK ABOUT OOFURI AND KINKS, APPARENTLY. (That and there's no fic of bottom!Abe, so we must fix this problem, yes.)

From the top, Mihashi splays out as a small, fragile thing, arm slung over his eyes, cheeks sunburnt and flushed. The sweat: it lines itself at the connection of their skin, where pale meets dark, and Abe feels Mihashi swell inside him. His legs ache, a burning feeling curling into his toes, and he shakes as he rises and falls, watching the pitcher’s face—the blooming red of his ears, the colored outline of his throat—contort and whisper. Mihashi’s mouth falls open, and he keens, chest lurching up as Abe insistently swivels his hips, falling deeper each time.

There are always a mixture of feelings, Abe has noticed, when they are mixed together in this way; trust and love and overwhelming desire, creating something that Abe wasn’t sure he could ever possess. He thinks it is on par with a demon, one that feeds on pleasure, one that cannot think of anything else. He feels this way, now, so full of Mihashi that it makes him emit something similar to a whine, impetuous and softly done. He knows that he would feel embarrassed seeing himself this way in a more right state of mind, squirming on Mihashi’s cock, perhaps in something most accurately described as wild or feral. But he does not worry much about this, now, when he is so hard it nearly hurts.

“G-Good,” is Mihashi’s breathless groan, tongue escaping to lick at the sweat that pools at the top of his lips.

Abe barely manages to continue at the sight of Mihashi writhing underneath him, and he pauses, slumping over, head down. He wonders when the summer heat became heavy and sticky, when air became scarce and breathing difficult. And he wonders when dull light began flickering in through the open window, making Mihashi glow, skin warm and golden like rum, pink mouth open and gasping. Yes—yes, he likes this view, watching Mihashi’s fingers reach and grasp at the sheets of the bed desperately, like a starved man.

These thoughts are interrupted: “Don’t—don’t...” Mihashi’s breath hitches, scrambling for air, “...don’t stop.” He bucks his hips up desperately, and it’s suddenly Abe’s turn to become breathless, oxygen slamming out of his lungs.

 _Wait_ is what he wants to say, but Mihashi sits up and pushes their lips together, hands gripping his hips. It’s obscene, how selfish Mihashi becomes at moments like these—tongue twining itself in Abe’s mouth, relentlessly canting his hips just as Abe had instructed him to do so the first time. It isn’t fair, the way one’s own lessons work against you, especially as Abe notices that he can barely keep himself upright, only held in place by a pair of small, calloused hands. He thinks their lips break apart because one of them begins to emit soft, staggered whimpers; but he is not sure who, only that it pools fire in his belly, like August, like summer. Like Mihashi, warm against his side on a cold morning.

Abe normally does not like sentimentalities, the things that break away from the present, but Mihashi, his hot, open mouth and anxious little thrusts encompass a routine, carnal and eager, something that cannot be taught. It is the way Mihashi knows the contours and planes of Abe’s body, the way Abe can use his tongue against Mihashi’s collarbone and paralyze him, ripping little shrieks from his mouth, allowing the power to shift and Mihashi to lie back down, twitching and boneless as Abe slams down so roughly they see stars at the corner of their eyes.

Or maybe it is the way Abe allows Mihashi inside him when no one else can.

“That little power grab was cheating,” whispers Abe, watching the boy sprawled out under him—under _him_ , he thinks gleefully—shake, eyes dilating and staring up at him, wide and black.

“S-Sorry,” Mihashi pants, but the little brat’s hands flail and palm the underside of Abe’s cock, eliciting a hiss and something like a high-pitched moan that he will never admit he did, later, when they fall asleep together chilled from sweat.

“Just …” again, the hand at Abe’s hips; rough, shaky. “Feels good.”

Quicker, then, and rougher—Abe’s legs scream in protest, sore from practice and muddled and slow from everything else. From Mihashi, from fire. _This guy is a cheater_ , Abe barely manages to think as he feels himself come, spilling over their stomachs, back arching so far it _burns_ , twitching as Mihashi as lurches his hips up into Abe wildly before they both still, gasping for breath.

Abe’s hands twine in Mihashi’s hair as they roll off each other, watching how the fading light loves to make the strands shine and sparkle. His eyes flicker and droop, and he flops against the pillows.

“Sorry, Abe,” says Mihashi, nuzzling his head into the crook of Abe’s neck. His breath, warm and dry, sends little tremors down Abe’s spine.

“Don’t be,” says Abe, rolling his eyes. “You should know by now that you never have to apologize for anything, idiot.” He tugs on Mihashi’s hair a little too roughly, watching him let out a small whine in pain.

“Y-Yes,” stutters Mihashi, curling his body up more, “I know.”

Abe would like to say that this is simple—sharing warmth, through the discomfort of drying fluids, but simplicity is something they both lack. There are most likely words for the kind of complexity Mihashi emits, that Abe has to suppress; anxiety so unfathomed it leaves the pitcher a terrified, hopeless thing. Abe shudders, remembering how Mihashi relentlessly entered and exited his body, cock swollen thick and without thinking, and decides that it is tough, being someone’s landline, someone’s connection.

He hits the top of Mihashi’s head. “Remember it, then.”

Though he does not say it, there is still something profound about it all, despite its difficulties; ruling Mihashi’s life because he chooses to entrust it to Abe. In the end, he wonders how much ruling is done by whom; the little idiot weaves his way into every thought, every worry, so much so that Abe lives and breathes Mihashi.

He does sometimes wonder why he doesn’t really mind, though.

But not often enough.


End file.
